CHAPTER 20
After Hendrix was finished working at the Center, he headed straight to the police station where he was polygraphed. Like Morrison, he also passed with flying colors, putting the detectives and angels back to square one. There was still one last ‘J’ to interview, Janis Joplin, but as it was already 9PM, the investigators deemed it best to save their strength till the next day. Gregory, fatigued from the questioning, retired to the Inn for some Z’s. Tony, having spent some time reading various music notices around town, started itching to play again. Already almost a full week in Heaven and he had yet to strum one guitar; the abstinence was beginning to wear on his nerves. So, with an advert in his hand, he rode the trolley all the way west down Tinker Street till he arrived at Overlook Drive, a narrow street not far from the West Beach. The Drive itself wasn’t particularly well-lit; were it not for the light of the moon, the entire area would’ve been as black as a murderer’s soul.
Hopping off the trolley, and from what he could see, there were only a few one and two-story houses almost 30 feet apart from each other, all of them planted in an impenetrably wooded zone resembling Germany’s Black Forest. Gazing at his ad once more, he tried to read the address. Unfortunately, the oppressive darkness prevented it so he folded and tucked it in his back pocket. As he was about to go and knock on the door of the first house he got to, he heard live music coming from an area almost 200 feet down the drive. Following the sound, he arrived at a light-blue two-story colonial house at the end of a winding lane. Its amber porch light was on as well as a few lamps on the first and second floor. The music seemed to be reverberating from the basement so he walked around the back and knocked on the thick wooden door. Realizing the musicians inside couldn’t hear him rapping over the din of their own rumble, he tried the handle which, unsurprisingly, contained no lock.
“Hello?” he shouted as he entered. Receiving no answer, he traipsed down a short hall then made a right into a rehearsal studio where a few musicians were wrapping up the song they were rehearsing. There were four artists – a drummer, keyboard player, bassist and guitarist, and they were loud. Very, very loud despite the fact that their amplifiers were weightless holograms. The young PI could feel the ground vibrating beneath his feet just from the bass amp alone, never mind the frequent WHOMPS from the thunderous kick drums. Besides the musical equipment, the studio had so many cases of beer lying around that it looked like one of the storage sheds at Anheuser-Busch. Posters of different women, some nude, some not, were haphazardly taped to the walls. Cabling crisscrossed the floor like black vipers in a Moroccan den. Ashtrays full of cigarette butts, roaches and spent matches were either sitting on top of music stands or chairs and stools scattered about the spacious room. The musicians, for the most part, appeared to be in their 50’s and 60’s. Only the long-haired guitarist, a gentleman with an Apache-type face, attired in Texas fashion, looked like he was in his 30’s. And it was the only musician the young PI recognized out of the four, bluesman Stevie Ray Vaughan.
Tony pulled up a stool, helped himself to one of the beers, and patiently waited till the musicians were finished the song they were in the midst of, a tune unfamiliar to him although the style resembled early metal, like Iron Butterfly or Blue Cheer. Finally, after a few minutes of music so thunderous that it’s a surprise the windows didn’t blow out, the band stopped for a break. Everyone except Stevie Ray exited to smoke or use the bathroom. The Texas guitarist, sweating like a prize fighter, walked over to where Tony sat, grabbed a white towel off a hook on the wall, dried his face with it, draped it around the back of his neck then grabbed a bottle of beer, cracked it open, and downed the whole thing down in one satisfying gulp.
“Hey,” Tony opened up, “you guys sounded real good.”
“Thanks,” the Strat master said. “Who are you?”
The young guitarist leaped off the stool. “Tony Lopez from Seattle.”
“Stevie Ray Vaughan from Dallas. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands; not surprisingly, the Texas-soaked axe man had the grip of a Denver Bronco.
“I came about the ad,” Tony offered, trying his best not to show the crushing pain his right hand was in. “It said you’re looking for a guitarist?”
“We were,” Stevie said, “but we decided to change our style up a little bit. It was getting kind of common. Sorry. I know that’s not what you wanted to hear. If you know someone who plays sax, though, that’d be cool. Our sax guy, Clarence Clemons, overheated and ended up in Medical Heaven.”
“Oh, yeah,” the younger smiled. “He’s from the E Street band.”
Stevie nodded. “That’s the one.”
“I play sax, too,” Tony informed him. “Tenor.”
The blues guitarist’s eyes widened. “Oh, yeah? Are you good?”
“I think I can hold my own,” the confident young musician pledged.
Walking over to a wooden cabinet against the far wall, Vaughan opened it, removed a rectangular dark brown case and handed it to Tony. “Can you make this thing sing?”
Opening the case, the astonished young man found himself looking at the most beautiful, polished work of metallic art he’d ever laid eyes on – a Selmer Paris Jubilee Series III Model 64 tenor sax. The reflection from his grinning teeth in the glassine body of the brass instrument nearly blinded the Texan.
“Is this Clarence’s?” Tony stuttered.
“One of ‘em,” Stevie answered. “Try it out.”
“I…I don’t know,” the young PI stuttered. “This not exactly a student model.”
“Well, you gotta start somewhere,” Stevie believed. “Give it a shot.”
Reluctantly, the nervous youngster strapped the sax around his neck, placed his lips over the mouthpiece, and puffed one small breath which barely made a sound.
“Ah,” Stevie Ray shook his head, hands on his hips. “You came down for nothing. Maybe next time…”
Tony interrupted the Texan’s spiel by playing a couple of blues bars into the instrument that were so intonated and sinewy that it shut him up instantly. Standing back a bit to give the saxophonist space, Stevie Ray watched and listened as Tony not only made the instrument sing like an opera diva, but made it come alive, its mellifluous notes wafting gently like hyacinth petals on an autumn breeze one minute, then fiery and stormy the next. Soon, the other musicians returned from outside and, when they heard the playing, stopped in their tracks to soak the sound in. Nearly a minute later, when Tony was finished coaxing Heaven and Hell out of the instrument, the musicians applauded.
“Not bad,” Stevie Ray said. “Not bad.”
“Who’s the chap?” the tall bassist asked, adjusting his amp.
“Tony Lopez from Seattle,” Ray answered.
The rest of the musicians walked over and introduced themselves.
“Me name’s John Henry Bonham,” a bearded, rough-handed musician said, “but me friends call me Bonzo. I kick them skins,” he added, motioning to his drum set. Tony knew better than to shake Bonzo’s hand; instead, he offered a fist bump which the drummer gladly reciprocated.
“Jon Lord,” the keyboardist greeted him. “That setup’s mine,” he indicated, nodding to the small island of keyboards, organs and electronic pianos occupying one corner of the rehearsal space. “If you put one drop of beer on any of those keys there’ll be hell to pay. Nah. Just playing. Welcome. You play pretty nicely. Reminds me of my friend Edgar Winter.”
“I’m Chris Squire,” the bassist said with an accent as British as Lord and Bonham. “Welcome. Do you also sing?”
“Yeah,” Tony answered. “I’ve played in a few bands…in high school.”
“Don’t fret, young ‘un,” Squire stated. “If you want the gig, you got my vote.”
“Thanks,” Tony said, biting his lip. “What bands did you guys play with?”
Stevie took the lead on this one. “Bonham’s from Led Zeppelin, Lord’s from Deep Purple and Squire’s from Yes. I was in Texas Flood. And speaking of Edgar Winter,” he continued, “do y
ou know ‘Frankenstein’?”
“Yeah,” the boisterous youngster beamed. “It’s one of the tracks on Rock Band.”
“Rock Band?” Lord asked.
“It’s a video game for the Playstation 3,” Tony answered.
Bonham shrugged. “Ok, let’s give it a shot.”
After all the musicians returned to their stations, Jon counted off the beginning of the early 70’s instrumental rock hit. Right away, they hit the nail on the head. Smiles floated all around as the music gelled. Though crashing loudly against each wall like angry rogue waves, the thunderous performance still felt good, like a blanket of polyphonic audacity cradling a cacophonic stream.
After a few more songs, and a lot more beers, Tony could barely see straight, let alone stand at attention. The other musicians, too drunk to go anywhere, opted to stay put in the blue house, chilling out with the handful of models that had been upstairs chatting, waiting anxiously for their tattooed love boys to finish jamming. The young saxophonist, swearing that he was okay, opted to trudge back into town, all two miles and change. Not even 1/8th of a mile later, he realized maybe that was a Bad Idea. At 2 in the morning, Woodstock was as dark as the bowels of a sperm whale, making it impossible to see the inside edges of the street. Accidentally tripping over a raised sidewalk block, he flew sideways into a ditch, landing hard in the leaf-covered crevice. His subsequent attempts at climbing out were diddly-squat as he lacked the precision and strength. You know what? he thought, giving up and drifting off into dreamland, I’ve slept in worse places.